The Sea Kings
by Lady Liln
Summary: David Jacobs knows nothing of pirates. But he's about to become very intimately acquainted with Jack Kelly's pirate crew, when he is abducted and forced to accompany them on their quest to find the world's most fabled treasure. Hijinks and romance ensue.
1. Capture

**A/N: Ahum, yes. Pirate!Newsies has finally come to frutition. Hopefully I did it justice. Comments are love and I'll love you forever if you comment because comments are love. Get my drift? ;)**

**Oh, also, contains slash within. Be warned.**

* * *

Once upon a time there was a boat.

A ship, really.

And this ship was called _The World_. And _The World_ traveled the world, sailing the seven seas, and was known the world over. _The World_'s crew, you see, were pirates.

But not bloodthirsty, savage pirates like those you often hear of. These were dashing, gallant ones. These pirates robbed ships on all seven seas and off countless coasts, and they did it all with brilliant witticisms, shiny shoes, and charming smiles. This ragtag bunch of pirates, known as much for their good humor as their robberies, never killed a soul. They stole, they damaged, they even inflicted some pain when necessary, but they left _all_ survivors.

Some places, in lands where the rules were more lax, where the law could turn a blind eye to some of their shadier dealings, these pirates could come ashore and, for a time, as long as they committed no _noticeable_ crimes while there, be welcomed into the fold. They went by their thinly veiled aliases, and under names like "Brigley Decks" and "Sullivan Peels" would be welcomed into manor houses of all types for colorful balls and lively parties. They'd toss out their stories by the minute, each more outrageous than the last—they were French traders, oui? Non, they were spies from the Spanish Armada, sent into deep cover by the Queen herself. The ladies would blush and giggle and listen raptly to the stories and the men would nod solemnly and they'd all pretend to believe. After all, their ship was called silly things like _Uncle Strangler_, not _The World_.

The pirates would leave these ports well fed and well bed, and the governors would have considerable more wealth than they had the previous week, tax-free.

Very little of their time was spent onshore, however. For the pirates, the sea was life and life was the sea, and no amount of golden and emerald shores or the pretty ladies who awaited on them could replace the splashing of the salty waves or the cry of seagulls. _The World_'s crew had not in reality been together that long; a few years, at most, and they were young yet, but to them, it felt like an eternity. They were each other's family and the sea was their home, and it did not take them long to build up a reputation, at any rate.

For many years _The World_ plied the seas, evading all capture. They were a skilled crew, and they left no carnage in their wake—only financial ruin. Several times various navies and privateers attempted to stop them—and several times they were defeated, or else neatly bribed.

Known though they were, Jack Kelly's band of pirates weren't the most famous in history, or even the most well known of their time. But it is around them that we center our story.

* * *

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­The day David Jacobs met with pirates dawned bright and clear.

He woke up feeling queasy, but then, he woke up feeling queasy most days. It had become a favorite joke among the crew—David Jacobs, city boy, who could spend over a month at sea without ever getting his sea legs—or his sea stomach, apparently.

Luckily he had stopped throwing up regularly about two-thirds of the way into the journey from England, and though he had resumed doing so in the beginning of the voyage back, it hadn't lasted as long. Now, nearly halfway back home, he kept his meals down about ninety percent of the time—and most of the other ten percent could probably be blamed either on bad weather or abysmal cooking.

His queasiness fading, David dressed in the same loose-fitting clothing he had worn almost every day on his voyage (and which were beginning to smell very strongly of both saltwater and fish) and stumbled his way abovedecks. The English trade ship was clipping along at a brisk pace, gamboling friskily with the waves, seeming to nearly fly over them. Too far north to be hindered by the Doldrums, wind was filling the sails completely, propelling them along almost faster than David would have thought possible. Various sailors swarmed the deck, performing their various tasks that helped the ship sail along so smoothly. At this rate, they'd be in London in under a fortnight. This thought cheered David considerably, and he was only moderately upset when he lost his footing and stumbled straight into the mizzenmast and began to develop what was bound to be a beauty of a bruise on his forehead.

Most of his morning, like many, was spent at the bow, working on his script. This occasionally led to his papers being anywhere from sprinkled to drenched by salty sea spray, but he generally found that staying abovedecks made him feel much less queasy and likely to lose his breakfast. He really didn't want to offend the cook any further than he already had; Feasty Charles, as he was known, seemed to take David's poor inner ear as a personal affront, no matter how often David tried to assure him to the contrary. He simply wasn't cut out for a life that wasn't spent on very firm ground—as he planned on telling his father in no uncertain terms once they reached London. This would be the last time _he_ was roped into overseeing one of his father's many trade ships to the West Indies, of all places.

Admittedly, part of it had been David's own idea. His last play, a musical about Vikings, had received discouraging reactions at best from the various theater directors and producers he'd tried to hand it off to. David wondered if perhaps this was due to his inaccurate depiction of sea life, having never set foot on a boat himself, and he vowed to resolve this issue. When his father, ever hopeful of roping David into the family business, had come forth with a voyage to the Caribbean that needed overseeing to ensure fair play from overzealous overseas merchant traders, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity for David to explore the lifestyles of his bearded protagonists. The prospect certainly hadn't seemed too difficult: to act as passenger while the hired seamen sailed the boat westward, supervise the loading and unloading of goods, make friendly small talk with the traders for a single night, and then make the return journey. Simple enough; he had always been good with a checklist, and it would leave him plenty of time to work on his play in between.

He hadn't counted on the seasickness.

But by the time he had arrived at the conclusion that he absolutely despised the sea and all it stood for, it was too late to turn back and he was effectively stuck. That was when he decided the Viking play was rubbish, with all of its cheerful odes to the changing of the tides, and now irrevocably linked to losing his lunch besides, and he tossed it overboard. Then he started on _this_ play, about adventurers in the Sahara (or about as far away from Vikings as one could possibly get). Of course, he'd never been to the desert either, but he knew better by now than to go gallivanting off and try _that_.

After a tense lunch, during which Feasty Charles eyed him suspiciously while David continually overemphasized the deliciousness of the unidentifiable leftover stew, he retired again to his place at the bow and looked out over the choppy blue water. To him, the sea was nothing but a vast, empty nothingness—which was useful as he imagined it its place the vast, empty nothingness of the desert. The air, shimmering from the very heat raising off the dunes…the sand itself, molded into hills and valleys as though by some giant invisible hand…the taste of dry air and sweat… His eyes distant and unfocused, staring at a vision only he could see, David began to write.

The very same sun that hung menacingly above his desert scene was descending quickly towards the sea from its zenith when David finally looked up again. The midday ocean looked no different than it had at noon; like a great blank canvas, all background, but then—he saw something to disrupt the nothingness. A _something_. A speck. David squinted. No, not a speck, a ship. It was a speck of a ship on the horizon, and it was becoming rapidly less speck-like as it approached.

David looked around at the lookout to see, rather unsurprisingly, that he was sound asleep in the crow's nest. Most of the sailors, he knew, had retreated to the captain's cabin to play at cards, leaving only the lookout and David on deck. And much good either of _them_ would be should the approaching ship prove unfriendly.

With a sigh, David gathered up his partial script, leaving his hero mid-hallucination, and went to alert the crew of an approaching ship from the—blast, what was it? East? North? One of those—In any case, he figured the captain should at least be made aware.

Captain Hearst was rather cross when he stomped out of his cabin after David, although that was probably more due to the large amount of money he'd just lost to the Second Officer than to the interruption. The crew trouped out behind him, most unadmittedly glad for the opportunity to stop betting what little wages they received. Somebody went to awaken the lookout with a harsh yell while the captain strode to portside, taking out his spyglass to better see the approaching vessel.

"What's she called, Captain?" the First Officer asked at the captain's left shoulder. David, curious despite himself, approached the captain's right side and squinted, as though that would work as well as Hearst's spyglass (it didn't).

"I can't tell," Hearst said, still staring through his miniature telescope, "The name seems to be obscured."

"Obscured how?" the First Officer asked, leaning over the rail as he stared in vain.

"Paint? Some strange…substance. I can't tell. Perhaps it's seaweed." The captain sounded doubtful of his own theory, but not as though he cared much—the matter was of little importance. "Wait, they're running up colors. Ah, there we go."

Hearst pocketed his spyglass; the ship was now close enough that you could see the British flag it flew, as well as other, smaller flags that David didn't understand the meaning of. Apparently the captain did, however.

"All right, lads, let's do what hey ask. Turn ship nor'east!" Hearts cried out, and, most confusingly, the crew began to steer _Greyhound_—the name of their own ship, of course—towards the newcomer.

"What's going on?" David asked, gripping the railing of the ship as the deck pitched and rolled neatly beneath him. "Where are we going?"

The captain patted him kindly on the shoulder. His earlier bad mood seemed to be forgotten. "See those colors they ran up, m'lad? The blue and yellow one with the stripeys and the green with the key?"

"What do they mean?"

"Well, roughly translated, it's something like: 'Hi. Welcome. We're friendly. Come hither. Let's talk.'"

Daivd stared at the small flags in various colors with symbols he couldn't make head nor tails of. "Oh. You get all that from _those_?"

"Well, more or less."

They were getting near enough now that David could begin to see men on the deck of the other ship, but not yet close enough that he could make out faces.

"Why would they want to talk?" David asked blankly. He couldn't think of a single reason to delay their journey even further and couldn't help feeling impatient to get back to England, even though he knew arrival was yet a fortnight away.

"Oh, y'know," the captain said confidently. "They'll be lonely and wanting a talk, if they've been at sea long enough, or else hoping to trade some goods, maybe lighten their hull. Asking for news of the Doldrums, or warnings of pirates hereabout—could be anything, really. A bit of friendly sailors' talk. Nothing to worry about, laddie."

"Huh," David said. He realized he was still holding his slightly damp, rolled-up script and tucked it in his pocket.

"Lookit," the First Officer said, coming up to the captain's other shoulder again, now that the masts were properly adjusted. "They're taking down the flags."

"To raise up new colors," the captain said knowledgably. "They have something else to say before we meet." He smiled beneficially at David, pleased to be sharing the ways of the sea with one so young and untrained.

"Should they be taking the English flag down too?" David asked. The captain frowned.

In the next moment, all confusion was quickly and shockingly erased as a new flag replaced those of the British crown and the friendly communicative handkerchiefs—one every sailor on board was all too familiar with. A black flag.

The First Officer's naturally wide eyes went unnaturally wider.

"Pirates," the captain said in one drawn-out hiss, and then: "Pirates! It's the Jolly Roger, boys! Hard to starboard!" There was general commotion and outcry as those on board who had not yet taken not taken notice of the cheerfully smiling white skull and crossed bones on the black ground reacted and rushed back to their stations. The ship pitched hard to starboard, rolling under David's feet and nearly sending him flying overboard.

But alas, it was too late to escape the pirate's clever trap, and the enemy ship—_The World_, as they could all now see it was called; whatever gunk had been obscuring the name now erased completely by the ocean—bore quickly down upon them. "Lord have mercy," the captain muttered upon seeing the name; David, having no knowledge of pirates, famed or otherwise, suddenly felt the knot that had developed in his stomach get even tighter at the captain's fear.

A dastardly trick, really, to get them to come so _close_—

Desperately, _Greyhound_ tried to run, or at least pivot to a position where her guns would be of use, but _The World_ was a step or two ahead, and deployed exactly one well-aimed cannonball. The leaping dog figurehead exploded into smithereens, and the ship rocked from the blow, bumping right into the hull of _The World_. The next thing any of the panicked sailors knew, grappling hooks had them tethered to the pirate ship, and about a dozen men—_pirates_—had seized ropes and swung across the narrow gap of sea to land, catlike, on _Greyhound_'s deck, guns and cutlasses bristling. In one more instant, _The World_ encountered a pushy wave and pitched forward, leaning over _Greyhound_ and casting its long shadow, and a _thing_—a person—jumped neatly from the top of its foremast, way up in the sky, and landed, more gracefully than any of them, right at David's startled feet.

"Stand and deliver!" he said cheerfully, pressing the nose of his pistol to David's mouth.

* * *

Things were going marvelously well.

Things had been going well ever since that morning, when Specs caught sight of the positively _loaded_ English ship tripping clumsily along on the horizon. A Dutch ship by making, those fluyts could carry nearly twice the load of most merchant ships—and it was coming from the West Indies to boot. A delicious prize for _The World_ to take and, as it turned out, an easy one. The trader ship was easily taken in by _The World_'s fake flags, and by the time she ran up her true colors, _Greyhound_ had been had. The other ship was so close that her cannons hadn't even gotten opportunity to speak. And now that they were on deck, the resistance was so pitiful it could hardly even be classified as such.

The gentleman who was kissing Jack's pistol was pale and practically shaking—no revolt needed be feared from him, leaving Jack free to look about and see how his fellows were faring. Race was sitting on the chest of a felled opponent, had taken out his harmonica, and was now blowing a merry tune for the pirates to plunder to. The captain's quickly drawn knife was dropped with a clatter when his neck became intimately acquainted with the edge of Kid Blink's sword, and Snitch and Skittery turned as one and banged together the heads of two sailors who had been creeping up on them from behind. One final attempt at struggle was made, one that Jack quickly ended by firing with his _second_ pistol, shooting the lookout's own gun right out of his hand as he surreptitiously descended the rigging. The lookout, weaponless, dropped to the deck with a loud _thud_.

In a few moments all resistance was quelled, leaving quivering (and in some cases, sobbing) seamen plastered across _Greyhound_'s deck, and about a dozen cheerfully threatening pirates scattered amongst them. Not exactly a top-notch crew, this one.

"Stop your sniveling, or I'll blow your ear off," Skittery warned, not unkindly, to a weeping sailor, toeing him with a well-polished boot.

"Let's blow all their ears off!" Specs bellowed theatrically. The other pirates growled and whooped their approval. Jack smirked. In accordance, he slid the nose of his pistol across his hostage's cheek and rested it, unsettlingly, on his ear.

"Not a bad idea, mates," Jack said to his fellows. "But first, let's get what we came for."

Almost before he had finished talking, Snoddy, Swifty and Skittery had descended loudly belowdecks, escorted by four unwilling crewmen, to gather their newly won goods and to disable _Greyhound_'s cannon with practiced efficiency, so no revenge could be attempted as the pirates sailed away.

The captain, still held in place by Blink's sword, glanced nervously towards his cabin, which, of course, caused it to be quickly ransacked by Itey and Jake. In hopes of squeezing every modicum of gold they could from their most recent catch, pirates slashed sailors' pockets and gathered what fell with delighted cries. For the first time, Jack turned his attention back to his captive. He was a young man, not far from Jack's own age, and from the looks of it, not so much a sailor as a gentleman.

"Jack Kelly, pirate," the very same said, bowing elaborately. He always liked his victims to know who he was—or else how would they refer to him in the history books?

"Turn your pockets out, if you please sir," he said genially, plucking the young man's three-cornered hat off his head and placing it on his own. The man looked was still pale, but shaking less, his face a strange mixture of fear, apprehension and righteous anger at being robbed. Slowly, he reached down and inside his waistcoat pocket. He withdrew a fistful of papers. Jack snatched them away, grinning.

"And what's this?" he asked. "Love letters to the sweetie?" He looked down and smoothed them out.

_MARTY_

_But Sarah, I long for adventure!_

_SARAH_

_Marty, don't you know it can never be? You have responsibilities here, to your family, your home!_

_MARTY_

_I'm sorry, Sarah. It's something I have to do._

_THEY EMBRACE_

_SARAH_

_Be careful, Marty. I love you._

_MARTY_

_And I you, dearest._

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Did you write this?" The young man in front of him gave a stiff, almost imperceptible nod. "God, it's awful." Jack pressed the papers back into the man's hand. He looked up, surprised. "Keep it, with my compliments. Other pocket, sir."

A solid-gold watch. Jack appraised this, holding it up to the light, before pocketing it himself. And lastly—another piece of paper. Old parchment, yellowed, worn. The young man himself looked at it blankly in his hand before Jack took it, as though he didn't remember seeing it before. Jack unfolded it.

It was a map. Of an island, almost circular in shape—a small island, according to the scale drawn on the bottom. It was elaborately drawn, nothing around it but flouncy blue waves, populated by large and imaginary whales and sea serpents. The island itself was crisscrossed with lines, lines that led nowhere and sometimes didn't even intersect. As though they had been meant to confuse. All along the edge of the map were words in some strange language Jack didn't recognize—French? Spanish?

There was a small skull and crossbones insignia burned into the lower right-hand corner. Jack blinked. He looked up at the young man again with renewed interest. The man looked uncomfortable and unsure, among other things (none of them pleasant).

"What's your name?" Jack asked, somewhat suspiciously.

"David Jacobs."

"Where did you _get_ this?"

"I…found it."

Jack waved the map in his face. "What does this say? The title. Can you read it?"

"I—Well, maybe if you stopped moving it," David snapped, finally showing an emotion other than discomfort and fear. He did look a little green.

"What language is that? Can you read it?" Jack demanded. The other pirates on deck, previously occupied with the sniveling sailors, were beginning to take note of the unfolding proceedings. Itey and Jake exited the captain's cabin, pockets bulging, carrying between them a large trunk. The captain, still in Blink's arms, whimpered.

"French—yes, Island of the Pirates; Pirates' Island." David said once Jack had steadied the map somewhat.

Jack looked again at the map, his eyebrows knitting. Pirates' Island—where had—no, it couldn't be—could it? He looked over at Racetrack, who had stopped playing the harmonica and was now frozen silent, staring wide-eyed at the map in Jack's hands.

Pirates' Island—famed, fabled, possibly mythical Pirates' Island. It was said that a hundred or more years ago, the greatest, most feared and successful pirate who had ever plied the seven seas, Louie LeMarque, had feared his death. An aging man, with the navies of at least seven governments out for his head, he had found himself with an accumulated wealth worth more than all the royalty in Europe, and no one he trusted to pass it all on to. So, the fable went, alone, he had buried his greatest treasure on some remote island none knew where, so that one day another great pirate in his image might emerge, and claim it for his own. LeMarque died soon after he was said to have done this, and next to nothing was known of where this treasure could have been buried, whether it really existed, what it contained, or just how a great pirate of the future was to ever find it. None even knew if a map had been made.

Could this be it, then?

Jack turned to his fellows and yelled out, "Anybody here read French?" Nobody answered.

Racetrack shrugged. "Jack, half of us can't even read _English_."

"What're you on about, anyway?" Snitch asked. While Race, Jack and some others had recognized the significance of the island's name, many had not. Some weren't even paying attention to their captain's discovery.

Jack looked back at David, who now looked totally bewildered, and much less frightened—almost like he had forgotten he was supposed to be. Swifty, Skitts and Snoddy had returned with trunks full of riches and valuables. Those left back on board _The World_—Mush, Crutchy and Dutchy among them—were overseeing the transfer of goods. The merchant captain whimpered again; no one paid him any mind. Some of the pirates had begun to swing back over to their own ship. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Mush go crashing to the deck after Blink swung clumsily into him; Blink offered a hand to help him up and kissed his cheek in apology.

Jack made his decision in a split second. Sheathing his pistol, the map in one hand, he grabbed a rope, wrapped an arm around David's waist before the latter knew what was happening, and flew across open sea and through open air.


	2. Assess

**A/N: Thanks so much to those who reviewed--your feedback means a lot to me, and always makes me smile! :) Here's the second chapter...please review, I'd love to know what you think! **

* * *

"But why do we _need_ him?"

"So's he can translate the Spanish!"

"It's _French_, Monsieur Brilliant."

"Hush, he's right there. You'll offend him."

"We just _kidnapped_ him, how much more offensive can we get?"

"Yeah, I know all we do is lie, cheat, and steal, but _this_ just seems—"

"Can't we just get him to write down his translation and then let him go?"

"Well, then how'll we know if he writes it down right? He could translate it wrong on purpose, just to keep us from finding the treasure."

"We don't know that. Why would he?"

"'Cause he may hold a grudge against us for the whole kidnapping thing."

"I swear, Jack, you're just making this up as you go along."

"As usual."

"We can't just let him go till we've got the treasure."

"I'm with Jack!"

"You would."

"Jack, we don't even know where this island _is_. Or if this's the real map. Stop and _think_ about this."

"Ah, don't be such a damn downer!"

"It's practicalness."

"Practi_cality_."

"Listen, Shakespeare—"

"We'll find it! The island, I mean."

"How the hell will we do that?"

"I've never even _heard_ this tale before. Someone wanna explain?"

"It's a myth! The story's not even true. Some old wife's tale."

"You fellas've got no sense of adventure."

"No kidding. What's wrong with you?"

"_What_ tale? Will one a'ya bastards please tell me?"

"It just ain't true!"

"Why ya gotta be such a psychic?"

"You mean cynic?"

"I'm warning you—"

"I think these're directions, see, 'cause there's no lines or x's or nothing, except for this one here, so clearly—"

"How d'we know it's a real map, and not some fake?"

"How'd _he_ get it?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"But why do we _need_ him? He ain't a sailor, y'know, he's a gentleman, from the looks of it, and what if he's got a family that'll come looking for him?"

"Jack, lots of people in the world speak French. People we won't have to _kidnap_."

"Yeah, but—"

"Really? It's the world's greatest treasure ever in existence? Wow…"

"Whaddaya think it is? What could be in it?"

"I heard it's a single chest."

"What could fit into one chest?"

"Gold? Lots and lots of gold…piles of it…"

"Diamonds, too! And rubies."

"Sapphires, emeralds…a fortune. LeMarque was the richest, most successful pirate in history. No way it fits into a single trunk."

"Say the treasure _is_ real—"

"Hey, the prisoner's throwing up."

"Ugh."

"Nice of him not to do it on the deck."

* * *

David stared up at the dripping, knotted wood of the ceiling above him and wondered how exactly he had gotten himself into this predicament. Just his luck to have been captured by pirates during his first (and hopefully last) go at sea. If he ever got out of this alive, he was never setting foot near so much as a pond or stream again.

As he watched a tiny water droplet form ominously above his head with agonizing slowness, David tried to reason with himself. After all, just about the only things he had going for him in this insane mess were logic and intelligence. Panicking, though an appealing option, would ultimately do him no good whatsoever. Now, _logically_, things could be a lot worse. If truth be told, _The World_'s crew was vaguely spoiling his preconceived notion of cruel, bloodthirsty pirates. For one thing, not only had they not tied him up and tossed him into the hold to rot, but one of them had actually given David his sleeping hammock and now had to share with the eye-patched fellow instead. It was almost civilized. And so far, no one had boasted about kills made, women taken, or sharks whose heads they had bitten off. No sudden violent brawls had erupted while David squeezed his eyes tightly shut, attempting to sleep. In fact, if he hadn't known better, he'd say they were trying to keep the noise down in deference to _him_. But that was just ridiculous.

He still didn't understand exactly why they had captured him, if not for ransom, as he had originally assumed. The captain, Jack, had given some sort of rousing speech after the initial hullabaloo—something about wanting adventure or treasure or some such, after which all the pirates had seemed very gung-ho and united in a common purpose, whatever that was. David suspected it had something to do with him. It seemed they meant him to be their sort of translator or guide as they used this map of his to find some buried treasure. Now _that_ was more like the kind of pirates David had heard of. He missed out on the exact details of what he was to do, however, whilst throwing up over the side of the ship, so he still didn't know why they simply didn't find someone else who knew French, or what they planned to do about his family, who would doubtless send ships to look for him once _Greyhound_ brought back the news of his fate. Of course, that could take weeks, and who knew if he'd even still be alive by then? Perhaps the pirates would decide he wasn't necessary after all, or he would under-perform at whatever task they asked of him, and they'd feed him to the fishes without a second thought.

None of this would have happened if it weren't for that blasted map. It wasn't like he had meant to acquire it; in fact, he had barely given thought to it while acquiring it at all. It was a complete accident. In the West Indies port where _Greyhound _had docked, while walking along the shore overseeing the loading of some of their newly obtained goods, David had put his foot down in the sand and felt the crunch of broken glass beneath his boot. Looking down, he found he had stepped on a very old sea glass bottle, which had apparently washed up on the shore with the last tide. Before he had broken it, the corked bottle appeared to have contained a single piece of parchment. Curious, David had reached down, plucked the parchment from the sharp shards of glass, and unrolled it. It was surprisingly dry, and seemed to have been rolled tightly for a long time, judging by the difficulty he had in smoothing it out. He had barely time to look and ascertain that it was indeed a very old-looking map before one of the crewmen called out to him, needing him for some small matter or another. So he had tucked the parchment into his waistcoat pocket and not given it another thought, until it had landed him messily in the hands of bloody _pirates_.

As…_non-barbaric_ as they seemed, bringing him water after he had been sick and not making him walk the plank or any such thing, he was still wary. They were pirates, after all, and even if his original perception of pirates may have been a bit overly _dramatic_, he didn't doubt they were still very dangerous. And there was the fact that he was going to be stuck on a boat with them for who knew how long to quell any relief he might have had at discovering they were not, in fact, raging cannibals.

David turned on his side and his hammock swayed dangerously. It made him feel slightly nauseous again, so he closed his eyes and waited for the sensation to pass. Slowly, he counted to ten, and when he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of the equally knotted and dripping wooden wall. He felt vaguely disappointed. How silly. Some part of him had actually held out hope that when he opened his eyes this would all turn out to have been a bad dream—not just the pirates part, but the entire voyage as well. But he didn't need to pinch himself to know that this was no dream.

If only he could figure out just who his captors _were_. "Jack Kelly" and "_The World_" both sounded vaguely familiar to him, as though he'd heard the names before, but as a conscious recluse from the shipping industry, he wasn't all too familiar with the current piratical mischief-makers. As for the names of the rest of the crew, well, most of them had introduced themselves, but in the midst of his mild panic attack and stomach sickness and everything else that had been going on, he hadn't actually paid that close attention. They all did seem to have very strange names, however.

David tossed and turned restlessly an hour more before being lulled by the gentle waves into a deeply uneasy sleep, surrounded by the scourge of the sea.

* * *

Jack gazed at his cotton sheets-covered bed and contemplated sleeping in it.

It would be nice not to sleep in a hammock for once. His own bed, in the captain's cabin, was the only one of its kind on the ship, and theoretically ought to have been his every night. But they weren't your typical pirates on _The World_, to say the least, and really, he was an unofficial kind of captain: a captain only by popular opinion and encouragement. So while this allowed him to mostly claim the cabin as his own, having full lordship over the only bed seemed a trifle selfish, when everyone else had to sleep in the hammocks that were always tearing holes and needing repairs so that there were never quite enough of them. Thus it was more or less decided that anyone who wanted the bed on a particular night could have it, and if more than one wanted it, they were left to work that out on their own—a method that surely would have caused no shortage of ills on any other ship, but suited them fine.. Of course, sometimes the men would compromise and more than one would share the bed, but in many cases, it was best simply not to ask when you noticed more than a single man missing from the maze of hammocks below.

Mush had proposed giving David the bed for this night, but as slightly guilty as Jack may have felt about the kidnapping incident, this was no reason to simply allow the man full access to all of Jack's things, not to mention several weapons. It was really quite lucky that the man—David—didn't seem like he'd be able to hurt a fly…or swim, for that matter, which meant there was little chance of him escaping, or even attempting to do so. Of course, they were days away from even the smallest patch of land anyway. Still, that issue aside, he didn't mean to treat David like an absolute prisoner—although that was technically what the he'd been ever since Jack had grabbed him on board _Greyhound _and held on tight.

All right, so maybe he hadn't been thinking completely clearly—or at all—when he had made the decision to take David away from the English trader and bring him back to _The World_, but he'd had a very good reason for doing it. As he had explained to the other pirates and the prisoner, as he was retching, earlier, it was the only option that made sense. Anyone else any of them knew who might speak French was not necessarily the most savory type of associate—as they really didn't consort with many savory types, in their line of work—and worse, would almost certainly demand a share of the treasure. At least with David as their prisoner, they could control what sort of reward he got, if indeed he got any at all besides his freedom.

There was also the fact that they could charge a nice ransom for him to compensate should the treasure not fall into their hands as planned for whatever reason. Either way they'd end up ahead and richer to boot. Overall, as he'd told the men, they had very little to lose by going on this journey—they could still raid ships as they liked, and, at worst, they'd spend a few frustrated days on a secluded island, likely surrounded by coconuts.

You see, Jack thought things through. Everyone else just refused to see the wisdom of his spur-of-the-moment plans. Well, he'd show them. He was already anticipating the looks of surprise and gratitude on their faces as he opened the trunk lid to piles of gold, heaps of rubies, mountains of silver.

* * *

"How do we act around him, though?" came a slightly urgent whisper through the dark at some ungodly hour in the morning.

"Whaddaya mean, Mushy?" Blink murmured, not opening either eye. He was still trying to hold on to the dream he'd been having, which had involved Mush being a lot less annoying than he was being now.

"Well, we've never exactly had to interact much with our victims after the fact, Kid," Mush said, now sounding more anxious than urgent. "Usually we just rob 'em, tip our hats, and shove off. But now we've stolen from and on top of that _kidnapped_ this guy, and he's probably got a family to go home to, and obviously we're not going to tie him up and leave him in the storeroom or anything, and so now we've gotta face him and deal with him and talk to him for _weeks _knowing we basically ruined his life and scared him half outta his wits. He must hate us."

"What, you'd rather we actually tied him up and put him in the storeroom, just so you don't hafta feel embarrassed?" Blink asked, the words coming out meaner than he'd meant. He wasn't much of a morning person. Plus, the whole conversation was rather ridiculous—what sort of pirate felt _guilty_?

"Of course not. I just wish we hadn't kidnapped him in the first place. I don't mind this island-hunting thing Jack's got planned, but dragging an innocent man along against his will just seems rotten."

"You're a pirate, Mush. Lose the conscience."

"I don't think that's gonna work, Blinky," Mush said. "So how should we _act_ around him?"

Blink stretched, finally opening his eyes. "I dunno. Friendly? Just act like he's a new member of the crew, y'know, like we've had to do before."

"But he's not here of his own free will. He's not here to learn the job or join the crew. Blink, I don't like my conversations awkward." Mush really did seem worried about how best to not go about hurting the prisoner's feelings in the coming days. It was half sweet and half plain dumb.

Blink sighed. Mush did have a point. "Ignore him?"

"You're completely useless, Blink, you know that?"

Blink kissed Mush softly on the nose. "Well, you're too much of a softy." He glanced over at the hammock where David was uncomfortably slumbering. "Looks like your menace of a bird decided to extend the hand of friendship, anyway."

Mush looked over too. Surely enough, the brightly colored Caribbean parrot Louie had alighted on David's slowly rising and falling chest, and seemed determined to stare into the newcomer's face until he awoke.

"He is not a menace, Blink," Mush said, somewhat resentfully. "You're the only one who thinks so."

"That's because I'm the only one he's a menace to!"

"Would you two shut up?" another voice hissed through the still fairly dark shiproom. "Some of us are still trying to get some shut-eye!"

"Sorry, Racetrack," Blink whispered back.

"Ah, too late. I'm already up. Ya bums." Racetrack's voice held no real malice, though, as the first sounds of quiet morning activity—mostly involving stretching and yawning—began to fill the room. "Uh…d'ya think we should wake the captive?"

"I have no idea," Mush said hopelessly.

"Don't worry. Louie seems to be doing that job just fine."

"ARGH!"

David's startled yell did its work in waking up the rest of the pirates, as well as probably half the ocean. Already useful, this man.

"Oh, don't worry, he's friendly," Mush rushed forward to say (a lie, in Blink's opinion), climbing quickly and clumsily out of the hammock and nearly sending Blink crashing to the floor. David still looked absolutely terrified, although whether it was due to the blinking ball of feathers sitting unperturbed on his chest or his rediscovery that he had been kidnapped by pirates Blink really couldn't say.

It was going to be a long couple of days.

* * *

Miles away on the same ocean, Captain Spot Conlon scowled.

This ship had been a breeze to take—the traders had thrown up the white flag of surrender nearly as soon as they saw Spot's ship coming, seeming absolutely terrified. Spot had assumed this was just because of his reputation. He hadn't guessed it was because this particular ship had already had an encounter with pirates—a very recent one.

Which meant, of course, that the ship was completely devoid of anything the least bit valuable that would make it worth Spot's precious time or effort. Even the sailors' pockets had been slashed open and emptied. Spot Conlon didn't much like being cheated. Nor did he like the way the annoying captain had fallen at Spot's feet as soon as he'd stepped on deck and began blubbering away.

"Take what you like—whatever you like. But we have nothing. We have just been robbed—they took everything—everything—oh please, we don't want any more trouble, we'll do whatever you want, I've heard such _things_—"

Spot was fairly certain that almost all of the _things_ the captain claimed to have heard were completely made up, but that was how his fame worked: having deliberately cultivated his frightening reputation, Spot could prevail upon terror alone, meaning he really never had to actually _do_ anything barbaric. Well, not most of the time, anyway. He made his exceptions.

He might have to make an exception for that maddening idiot Jack Kelly, for instance, once he got his hands on him. He was fairly certain this whole thing was Jack's doing; few other pirates were so damn _thorough _with the ships they took. Of all the things Spot did not like, being bested was near the top of them, as well as being beaten at absolutely anything. There was really only one thing he consistently lost at, and piracy was not it.

"How much did they take?" he growled at _Greyhound_'s captain, pacing around the deck while his men swarmed the ship, looking fruitlessly for anything Jack and _his_ men may have missed. Spot was masochistic, wanting to know exactly how much he'd missed out on, every last penny, all he could have had if only Jack hadn't came along and taken it all before he could. That damn man had taken what was rightfully his to steal!

"Everything," the captain cried hopelessly. "All our trading goods—all our gold, all personal belongings with the least value. And"—he began to weep—"the merchant's son."

"What?" Spot said sharply, turning back to look at the pathetic man, thinking perhaps he had heard him incorrectly. "What's this you say?"

"David Jacobs, the son of Mr. Jacobs, who owns this ship—they took the young man, right along with the goods, plucked him right off the deck. For no reason at all. Probably he's been gutted already, the poor lad—he never did want to go to sea…" More tears flowed messily from the captain's eyes.

Now, this information made Spot pause. Never, in all the years he'd known most of those who sailed aboard _The World_, had he known them to just up and steal a _person_. Not even for ransom—they did well enough that they didn't need it, and besides, that wasn't how any pirate acquired extra money. No, if Jack had taken a person, he must have needed him for _something_.

And now, it would seem, these sailors planned to return to wherever they came from and alert their employer—who, it could be assumed, owned several ships—of what had happened, and then good ol' Captain Jacky would be on the receiving end of a manhunt. Nothing he couldn't handle, and hadn't handled before, of course. And he probably deserved it, too, given that he'd already emptied the ship Spot had planned to clear of its goods.

All the same, though, Spot caught the eye of one of his men and gave him a signal that clearly meant _hole this goddamn ship_. _That_ would keep them from getting Jack into any sort of trouble for at least a week longer than before, as they'd have to limp to the nearest soil for repairs. Spot wasn't completely heartless; he knew they weren't too far from the shore of some small village town. The natives might not be a lot of help with fixing the ship, but neither, he was fairly certain, would they impale the crew members with sharp sticks.

Because there was nothing else for him to take, Spot pocketed the captain's unloaded pistol. You could never have enough weaponry.


	3. Consignment

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay! As always, read, review, enjoy. ;)**

* * *

It had been a strange morning, what with the shipful of pirates behaving not at all as pirates ought. There had been friendly introductions made and goddamn small talk at breakfast, and in general people treating David like he was some sort of new friend, as opposed to a new prisoner. They hadn't tied him up or put him to work or anything of the sort, and as they broke up after breakfast to see to various things on the ship, just as the sailors had, he had just sort of been left alone. Not even attended to. As though he knew what to do; as though there was some sort of prisoner's etiquette handbook he'd been handed at the beginning of all this that filled him in. He wished there was. "How to Behave and What to Do When Your Pirates Leave You Alone On Deck". It would have been useful.

But there wasn't. So after breakfast David had garnered up the courage to approach his captor, and tentatively knocked on the captain's door.

"Come in."

David did so. The windowless room was small and cramped, with a bed pushed into the corner that looked as though it could have fit two people, if the people were not very big, or one person, if that person were the size of his father. Various brightly colored maps adorned the walls, displaying perhaps every coastline and stretch of open sea that existed on the planet. Captain Jack was sitting at a small table, poring over one of the maps—this particular one of the entire world.

"So…" David said, unsure of how to start; Jack hadn't even looked up at his entrance. "I'm here."

"Yes," Jack said, still staring at his map. "Knocking. Awfully polite of you."

"Uh," David said, completely out of his depths, both literally and metaphorically. "Right." He cleared his throat. "So, I'm here. Being held against my will."

"Of course." He wasn't sure, but David thought Jack might have smirked.

He felt uncertain. Were they supposed to be speaking in this civilized manner? This whole experience was turning out to be completely unlike however he might have guessed being taken hostage would be. Where were the iron chains, the lack of food, the growling threats to make him walk the plank?

"And…you won't let me go." There wasn't really much of a question in this.

"Sorry. Not yet."

"And I suppose it's pointless to attempt escape."

Jack finally looked up at him and grinned. It was a bit disarming. "Pretty much," he said.

David shuffled his feet awkwardly. "So…what exactly am I supposed to do?"

Jack stood up from the table and began rolling up his map. "Whatever you want."

"Shouldn't you be…chaining me up or something?" David felt slightly ridiculous asking this, and half afraid he was giving Jack ideas.

Jack looked surprised. "Did you _want_ to be?"

"No!" David said quickly. "I just…never mind."

"We don't really need your talents, Davey, for quite some time, so in the meantime, you'll be a passenger. Do whatever you want. Learn to be a pirate. Swab the decks. Put on a puppet show. I don't really care. Just stick around."

Well, that was certainly dismissive. David was a little bit affronted that the very one who had kidnapped him in the first place was not more invested in his doings. Was he not _worthy_ of being carefully guarded?

But these seemed like idiotic complaints to make, so he bit his tongue and left the cabin, and if he slammed the door a little behind him, well, that could have just been the wind.

* * *

Jack stared at the scene before him, amused.

David Jacobs, the trader's son, hadn't even been with the pirates two full days, and several of them had already apparently not only put him at ease, but _befriended_ him. At that very moment Mush was teaching a befuddled David the parts of the ship and Blink—well, Blink was having a spitting contest with Racetrack and Snitch off port side. Typical. And they wondered why so few of the other pirate crews took them seriously.

Louie, as well, seemed to have taken a liking to David, much to Blink's disappointment. Blink was always hoping the parrot would show some signs of disliking anyone besides himself, but these hopes were always in vain. Mush, of course, insisted that Louie's hatred of Blink was all in the latter's imagination, but everyone on board, Mush included, privately knew that Blink was really quite right in taking offense—the bird did seem to have it out for him. It was strange, because he got along with everyone else perfectly well, or, at the very least, had never actually bitten any of them.

Well, David seemed much more at ease, at any rate, than he had the previous morning when he'd come to Jack in his cabin, if he did not still seem a little apprehensive. At least he was being kept entertained and out of the way, and so Jack was free to put his mind to this great venture they had undertaken.

The whole crew had pooled their knowledge of the legend of LeMarque's treasure, but none of them seemed to have heard so much as a whisper of a rumor of a thought of where in the world the actual island might be. Jack was going on blind faith that the map was real, of course; what else could he do? It would do him no good to doubt it, without evidence in either direction.

He supposed the only thing for it was to go ashore at Tortuga—they were in need of supplies and a good break from the sea, in any case—and ask around. One obviously had to be careful when dealing with an island populated by pirates, though. Pirates were by their very nature liars, conmen and thieves, and getting reliable information out of any of them was a tricky task at best. They'd often made you pay through the nose to get it and even then screw you around just for fun. And there was always the possibility that no one would actually know anything worth knowing. It might take a bit of careful research to establish who was likely to have any connection to the legend—and if they could be trusted.

Meanwhile, he'd make David write a letter to his family after an acceptable amount of time had passed, calmly informing them that he'd escaped his dread captors and was in the process of finding passage home. That ought to delay any annoying searches, at least for a little while. The last thing they needed was a bunch of righteously indignant Englishmen holding them up.

All in all, Jack thought he had everything pretty well figured.

Partly because David looked like he might be sick again, and not necessarily overboard, Jack opened the rear hatchet to the hold and descended the ladder. Separated from the main sleeping area below by a thin partition was the stern cabin beneath his own, where they stored their goods. In all the recent excitement, he hadn't yet thought to see what they had obtained from their last robbery. _Greyhound_ had been fit to bursting, packed with so much merchandise it was a wonder it hadn't sank. As it was a wonder _The World_ didn't sink now, what with all the new weight in the stern. Jack rubbed his hands together at the prospect of new riches and got to work.

Discovered in the chests, barrels and caskets were a mixture of goods, some quite clearly items from England that _Greyhound_ had been unable to sell, some trade goods bought in the West Indies. There were blocks of tin, bars of refined English steel, crates of books, plates of china, women's clothing, buckets of paint and varnish. Lengths and yards of cloth came out of one large chest: woolens, linen, and silk from the Far East. There were food and spices of all types, from grain to sugar and molasses, exotic fruits to English tea, sacks of flour to jars of honey. A nice supply of hearty drink; there were casks of water and beer, skin bottles of wine, crates of whisky and rum. And a chest or two of jewels and money, and one filled with gleaming silver weapons.

They would have to sell what they could of most of the household goods, keeping only what was needed to support the ballast. This would lighten the hull a bit for faster sailing, as well as clear room in the hold for their next catch. The jewels, of course, they'd keep, the money too, anything valuable—but the dull, useless goods had to go. Wryly noting the sounds from above of most of the crew playing yet more poker (in other words, doing absolutely nothing to help), Jack dragged the heavy trunks into groups depending on his plans for them. A rather large pile was to go to the galley; Pie Eater would be pleased.

Jack nearly thought himself finished when he spotted another trunk, more gilded and decorated than the others, that had been dropped haphazardly on its side. He straightened and then opened it, using the hilt of his cutlass to knock off the padlock. It was mostly full of clothing, books, and other personal belongings. It was made clear whose when he found ink, parchment, quills and half a dozen scribbled sheets that, upon first glance, said things like _terrible desert heat_ and _love's first blossom_. Well. He might as well give this one back to David for his use while he was on board. The chest, that was—he would be doing them all a favor to withhold most of the papers from ever being seen by human eyes again.

It was nearly lunchtime by the time Jack had finished and strode upstairs. A breeze had kicked up: the salty sea air caressed his face, and he inhaled deeply. The air tasted fresh and adventurous and hopeful and new, promising of good things to come.

* * *

David stared wistfully across the sapphire-blue sea. Great Britain drew ever farther away as he found himself nearly retracing the route he had just come from, back to the West Indies. He wasn't sure if the pirates had a specific purpose; if they actually meant to dock in the Indies or if they were simply sailing around, waiting for unsuspecting ships like _Greyhound_ to fall into their pirates' trap.

What he wouldn't give to be back in the comfort and safety of his own recently acquired flat in London! He had moved in a scant two months past, ecstatic to finally have his own place, somewhere he could write for hours and not be disturbed. "Disgraceful", his mother had said of his moving out, not even properly settled, not yet married,but he liked it—he enjoyed the peace and the solitude. If he closed his eyes, right here, he could imagine he was there, instead—

This illusion was promptly ruined by a heavy weight on his shoulder that caused him to jump about three feet into the air. But it was only Louie, alighted on his shoulder. The curious colorful creature blinked at him with wide eyes that were shockingly close. Hesitantly, David lifted his opposite hand and slowly stroked Louie's bright chest—the bird opened his beak and made a strange coo of pleasure. David smiled despite himself.

"Good birdie," he said.

"Anchors away," Louie squawked. "Dirty bastard."

David laughed at the absurdity of his own surprise. What did he expect but profanity out of a pirate's parrot?

Kid Blink came up beside him. Louie screeched loudly, dug his talons into David's shoulder, and took off into the breeze. He landed ten feet away on Mush's head; apparently Mush's shirtlessness didn't give Louie's claws enough to hold on to on his shoulder.

Blink rolled his good eye at the bird and took off his bandana, shaking his freed blonde hair like a puppy coming out of the water and using the red cloth to wipe his forehead. He glanced up at the sweltering sun.

"God, it's hot," he said. David nodded in agreement. He supposed the alternative would have been worse—God only knew what stormy weather at sea did to his stomach.

They heard an uneven gait from behind and turned. Crutchy, the pirate with the peg-leg, was approaching.

"Gee, it's a great day for a swim," he said happily—something about this particular pirate just oozed happiness. "How about it, Dave?"

David blinked at his newly acquired nickname—no one back home had ever called him anything but David. At least they weren't calling him Davey, like their captain had. Not that he'd seen much of Jack since the previous morning.

"I can't swim," he admitted. Blink looked surprised.

"Can't swim?" he repeated, as though David had just told him he didn't know how to breathe. "But—"

"Galleon nor'east!" came the interrupting cry of what was his name—Specs—from the crows nest.

At once, Blink and Crutchy's attentions were diverted elsewhere. David felt as though he had received a small static shock—he had nearly forgotten, for a moment, that he was talking to _pirates_. They had simply seemed like more colorful versions of sailors on his father's ship, and actually seemed to like him a good deal more. But it was rather hard to ignore their true profession when there was a ship approaching that was sure to be quickly relieved of its goods.

David stayed on deck, unsure of what to do, as the pirates swarmed around him, dashing here and there with practiced methodicalness.

"Gosh, it's a lucky break, two ships in the last three days," Mush observed, and David realized the first one he referred to was _Greyhound_.

"Thirteen gunner," Boots reported. Six more cannons than either _Greyhound_ or _The World_ had.

"Run up the distress flags," Jack commanded, suddenly there, on deck, striding about, grinning like he did this every day—which he most assuredly did­—clapping his men on the back or shoulder. "Ev'ryone look distressed! Good, David, you're getting it."

David had hardly been _trying_ to look distressed—he came by that naturally, as well as his confusion. Dutchy, the latest to appear at his ever-rotating side, seemed to recognize this.

"We pretend we're sinking, let them come to us, thinking they'll help—'s how we hardly ever fire a shot," he explained with a grin.

Sneaky and underhanded, these pirates, preying on people's goodwill—worse, somehow, than threatening them directly.

David felt he had to do _something_. However powerless he might be on a pirate ship, he had to at least try. For the sake of justice.

"Wait just a minute," he said loudly to the pirates at large, as they scurried about the deck, throwing up their hands and looking, indeed, quite distressed. Practice, he supposed. "You can't just go around robbing people!"

A few of the pirates paused in their dramatics and looked at each other.

Blink whispered to Mush, "Does he not understand that we're pirates?"

"Maybe he's thicker than we thought," Mush whispered back.

"I mean, people earned that stuff!" David went on, ignoring them. "They worked hard for it! It's not fair to just _take _it. Why don't any of _you_ try earning your keep?"

"Well, where's the fun in that?" Racetrack wondered aloud, looking genuinely puzzled.

"Is that all life is to you?" David demanded. "Fun?"

"Unfamiliar with the term, Mr. Stick-up-his-arse?" Jack said, rolling his eyes. "Now if you don't mind, we've got a ship to rob."

The pirates resumed their pantomimed panicking.

David looked around. The other ship—_Bonny Miss Bonny_—had banked and was rapidly approaching. He turned away.

He retreated belowdecks. He paced about the hanging hammocks. He cursed the pirates for being pirates, hecursed himself for being unable to do anything.

He had an idea.

David strode over to his trunk, residing now in a dusty corner of the room. He flung open the lid, actually thankful not to have to deal with opening a lock, and began ruffling around inside. Excitement and nervousness made his hands shake slightly as he dug within. It occurred to him he could not take the entire trunk, heavy and awkward as it was, and took the briefest moment to mourn for the passing of a family heirloom. Then he found a cornsack in one of the nearby hammocks and stuffed it full of first his play, then his writing equipment, followed by his books, his more valuable possessions, and with what little room was left, some of his clothing. The rest he left in the trunk.

He snuck up the stairs, his heart racing. David stopped three steps from the top and quietly flattened himself against them, peering out the open hatch, which was at eye-level. The pirates were mostly gathered at the starboard side of the ship, waving frantically to _Bonny Miss Bonny_, still pretending to be distraught, while the bigger ship swam ever closer. Just half a moment more and they'd be bumping hulls. David crept up and onto the deck, then up one more flight of stairs to the reardeck, where he crouched by the railing, above the other pirates, mostly out of sight. No one took any notice of him.

"Ho there!" a voice called out from _Bonny_—the captain's, most likely. "What is your damage?"

"We've sprung a leak in the keel!" Jack shouted plaintively back. "She's rapidly losing air—it's too much for us to fix. The stores are under three feet of water."

"We're going down!" Racetrack flailed. Blink buried his face in his hands—not in anguish, David noticed, but because he was trying to conceal his laughter.

"Come aboard!" _Bonny_'s captain invited. "Today's your lucky day, mates, to have met us!" _Bonny Miss Bonny_ drew perfectly even with _The World_, not even beginning to understand how true those words were.

This was David's chance. He had to do it now, in the middle of a commotion, when pirates had begun grabbing ropes and swinging across. David took a deep breath and stood, adjusting his pack securely over his shoulder. He found a rope, closed his eyes, opened them, took another deep breath, let go of the rope, wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, took ahold of the rope again, held on for dear life, squinted, and pushed himself off the ship.

It was terrifying. The last time he'd done it, it had been so shocking and unexpected he hadn't had time to be scared, and his life was in Jack's hands besides. Who was much more practiced at this than he was. Now, however, he'd have only himself to blame if he went tumbling downwards.

Thanks to his terror of not quite making it across and splashing into the ocean, he ended up overshooting by about ten feet, knocking headfirst into the mizzenmast of the other ship. He seemed to have bad luck with those things. He was already beginning to swing back the way he'd come when he remembered to let go and tumbled messily to the deck.

Before he could so much as gain his bearings, David was immediately helped to his feet by a sailor who appeared from, seemingly, nowhere.

"Watson," the young man said. "Bad luck about your ship, eh?"

"Right," David said dizzily, realizing the man was introducing himself. If he could just manage to stay here, on _Bonny_'s reardeck, while the pirates plundered the main deck and below, until they left, he'd be quite literally home free. They'd never notice he was gone until well after they and the seriously lightened _Bonny Miss Bonny_ had parted ways, and surely from this ship or another David could manage to find passage home to England.

"Listen," he said, lowering his voice, although no one but Watson was near enough to hear him anyway. "I need to stay on your ship."

Watson gave him a strange look. "Well, you're all stayin' on, arn'cha? Your's goin' down, poor fellow."

"Oh, right," David said, blinking. He decided not to mention the whole pirate thing just yet—it might cause attention to be drawn to him, and was the last thing he wanted. "Well, I guess I'll just sit here then."

"Oh, no, Captain Smalls'll be wantin' to make introductions. And I'm sure your captain'll be wantin' you down with the rest of your crew. C'mon then."

Before David could protest, or say, "But they're _pirates_!", Watson had taken him by the very sweaty hand and was leading him downstairs to the main deck.

As soon as they stepped off the last stair, David wrenched his hand away from Watson's grip and flattened himself against the wall of the galley, shutting his eyes and praying he'd go unnoticed by the pirates. At least if he was seen, hopefully none of them would give him a second thought and realize, really, he should have been waiting back on _The World_, until it was too late.

David started inching his way along the wall back towards the stairs. If he crouched just under them, between the stairs and the wall, it ought to provide him enough cover. Watson was looking at him strangely. He was also licking his lips, which David found a bit odd.

Success. He could now see the large assorted group of pirates and sailors through the gaps between each stair, but as long as none of them looked directly over, they were very unlikely to see him. The crewmen of _Bonny_ all had their hands up now, the pirates having apparently got to _that_ part of their plan; it didn't seem like anyone was putting up much of a resistance. With any luck they'd be gone in ten minutes.

Watson had apparently also cottoned on to the true nature of _The World_'s crew, and, terrified, was now trying to squeeze in next to David under the stairs. A reasonable response to being confronted by pirates, David supposed, except he wasn't sure quite why Watson needed to squeeze in _quite_ so close, or why he couldn't direct his ragged breathing somewhere besides David's ear. David shifted awkwardly. With his luck, Watson's bulk was sure to get him noticed under here. He looked around desperately for a further hiding place.

Of course. Directly below him. He was crouching, David now noticed, on a small hidden trapdoor. Surely it must lead belowdecks, where there would be plenty of room to hide—and he couldn't be trapped down there, not with Watson as a witness as to where he had gone. Maneuvering as carefully and quietly as possible—a bit difficult with such a cramped space and Watson (inadvertently, no doubt) sticking his hands in places they didn't belong—David managed to wedge the trapdoor open, just wide enough for him to be able to slip through, feet first.

David slithered one foot into the hole. Pirates were emerging back onto the deck from below, carrying just a few trunks and looking rather disappointed.

"Not much here, Jack," he heard one of them say. David began drawing his other foot forward.

"'Ey," Watson said loudly, seeming to forget his terror, at least for a moment. "You can't go down there! Tha's private, that is!"

David froze, holding his breath. But alas, too late. Racetrack had looked over.

"Hey, what's Dave doing over here?" he said, sounding more surprised than accusatory—for now.

At this, Jack looked over, too. As did a host of other pirates and sailors. The game was undoubtedly up.

"David?" Jack said, sheathing his cutlass and striding over. The man he'd been threatening at sword-point was quickly taken over by Swifty, instead. As Jack approached, Watson shot out of their hiding place faster than a speeding bullet, and then tripped over nothing and landed, comically, at Skittery's startled feet.

"What'cha looking at, Dave?" Jack asked, grinning, falling to his knees beside David, whose left food was still dangling into the hole. David was immobile with dread, his escape plan completely shattered. Appearing not to notice, Jack peered into the darkness below. He squinted. Then, his eyes widened. "Holy shi—" he breathed.

He stood up again and faced his men, looking delighted. He was beaming, really; there was no other word for it. "Looky here, boys! Davey's found a secret treasure stash!" he called out, clapping David hard on the shoulder. "Turns out this here ship isn't such a waste of space, after all!"

The pirates whooped and hollered, and before he knew it David found himself surrounded by a throng of happy buccaneers, all hugging him or patting his back or congratulating him on his sneakiness and keen eye. Or, as one put it, his first act as a bona fide _pirate_. How piratical of him, to have found the treasure. They could already tell he was going to be useful on this quest of Jack's, yes indeed. Blink had just _known_ he'd had the making of a pirate. Mush was so proud, just so proud.

And just like that, without even meaning to be, David was inducted into the most unofficial order of pirates. Just like that, he became a thief.


	4. Celebrate

**A/N: Very sorry for the long wait once again! To make up for it, this chapter's extra long. ;) Read, review, enjoy! Also, Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day, me hearties!**

* * *

Someone was throwing up overboard, and it wasn't David.

It was Skittery, and by the looks of things, he wouldn't be the last to rush to the railings and retch that night. The fact that he was the first was a little surprising; Skittery was well known amongst the crew for being able to hold his liquor—however, he was also known for imbibing quite a lot of it when the occasion came, and everyone has their breaking point. Or vomiting point.

Jack's, at least, probably wouldn't come tonight. He was determined to keep up some semblance of sobriety—someone, after all, had to be conscious enough to steer the ship if a storm or other unexpected occurrence happened. All the same, surely no one could fault him for having a drink or two. Or three. After all, this was a celebration.

That in mind and rum in hand, Jack made his way belowdecks again, the sound of badly off-tune harmonica music and random bangs that sounded as though they might have been trying to establish a rhythm reaching his ears as he descended. The raucous yells and loud laughter didn't help the attempts at music sound any more appealing, although it was doubtful that anyone minded, since the rum and ale had long before made their second and third rounds about the room.

Perhaps, Jack thought, as he looked around at his crew, the drinks had even made fourth and fifth rounds, judging from, for instance, Blink, who was drunkenly telling off a completely sober Louie the parrot, or Itey and Snitch, who had each unattached one end of a hammock from the ceiling and were using them to swing across the room like monkeys. Mush and Racetrack had their arms around each other and were dancing a merry jig on a table, surrounded by their somewhat-adoring fans. The contents of their tankards splashed everywhere, making the table sticky beneath their feet, which led to not a few comic falls. Of course, the rocking of the ship and the drunkenness of the dancers probably helped as well.

David, both the honoree and cause of the current party, was among those standing around the table, although unlike everyone else, he wasn't yelling and clapping his hands, and he didn't appear to be totally soused. In fact, he looked rather muddled and unsure, which, as far as Jack could tell, was a usual look for him; but it was hard to watch Race and Mush sing and dance so horribly without laughing at least a little, and sure enough, Jack soon saw him crack a smile. It was quite a nice smile, really.

Making his way through the drunken revelry and debauchery, Jack approached David from behind and slung an arm around his shoulder. "Rum, David?" he asked, grinning, pressing a glass he'd collected on the way over into David's hand.

David looked down at the rum as though he wasn't quite sure what it was or what he was supposed to do with it, and then he looked at Jack as though he wasn't quite sure why he was touching him or what he was supposed to do about it, but at that moment Racetrack crashed loudly to the floor, distracting them both. Jack grinned. Giving David's shoulder a quick squeeze, Jack released him and sprung forward to take Race's spot on the table. Mush hopped down as Jack raised his glass in the air and yelled to get everyone's attention.

It took quite a bit of yelling, but eventually the noise ceased—after Snoddy hit Race's harmonica out of Jake's hands—and everyone in the room was looking up at Jack.

"I'd like," Jack began to announce, noting proudly that his words weren't even slurring (much), "to make a toast."

The pirates cheered, raised their glasses, and drank deeply.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Jack yelled over their enthusiastic shouts. "I haven't said what it is yet!"

There were general murmurs of agreement. "Sorry, Jack!" someone called.

"All right then," he said, when they'd quieted again. "I'd like to make a toast…"

"You already said that!"

"…to our new friend David Jacobs…"

Everyone cheered again.

"…the newest crew member of _The World_ and official pirate inductee!"

To say David looked a little embarrassed would be a horrific understatement, but Jack didn't much care as he raised his glass high to the ceiling.

"So here's to you, David—and to all our new treasure!" Jack threw his head back and drank.

The loudest cheers yet echoed around the room as Jack leaped down again. Blink and Mush were getting completely soaked trying to drink out of the same glass. David was still holding his untouched glass of rum.

"C'mon, drink!" Jack encouraged him, clapping a hand on his captive's shoulder. David took a deep breath, glanced at Jack out of the corner of his eye, and took a large sip, which he immediately spit back out.

"All right there?" Jack asked, thumping David enthusiastically on the back as the latter spluttered and choked.

"Fine," David gasped out. "Just—swallowed it funny—"

"Take another sip; it'll help!"

Reluctantly, David did so, and managed to keep it down this time, although he did make a pained face, as though he was swallowing cough medicine instead of alcohol.

"What, you've never had rum before?" Jack asked incredulously. David shrugged. "What do you _drink_ at home?"

"Um," David said. "Water?"

Jack put his arm around David's shoulder again and guided him out of the thick of the crowd of pirates. "Well, welcome to a whole new world of fun, Davey," he said grandly. "I have taken it upon myself to show you the ways of my people."

"Your _people_?" David repeated, still looking as though he wasn't at all sure why Jack was even talking to him.

"Pirates." Jack stopped and leaned casually against the ladder leading abovedecks. "Observe."

Jack tipped his head back and skillfully drained his glass in one gigantic swallow. "Easy, see?" he said when he was done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What do the other lessons involve?" David asked, raising an eyebrow. "Stealing, pillaging, plundering and marauding?"

"Something like that," Jack agreed. "Though it isn't all that simple, Dave. This life takes grit. Strength. Hard, serious work." He banged his fist hard on the ladder to prove his point.

"I can see that," David said as Jack winced, massaging his hand. Jack barely heard him, too busy turning his hand over, checking for signs of blood. David sighed and took another sip of rum, longer this time.

Having determined his hand to be bloodless, Jack raised his glass again, only to find it empty, and blinked at it in confusion.

"S'empty," he said.

"You drank it all."

"Right." Jack glanced around the room, wondering when it got so blurry. He'd only had, what, three drinks? Five? Something like that. He giggled a little.

"You want to get some air?" David asked, sounding mildly concerned. Jack blinked at him.

"Right," he repeated, and started up the ladder.

* * *

Being out in the open, away from the loud noise and stale air, seemed to clear Jack's head and return him to (mostly) full consciousness. David watched his steps carefully, but Jack didn't seem to wobble too much as he strode to the starboard railing and gripped the edge of the ship, so David followed him.

"Nice, ain't it?" Jack asked, gesturing rather vaguely towards the sea and the sky. David looked out, over the dark, clear water, reflected in the sky, dotted with a million stars, and felt…seasick. He groaned.

"I probably shouldn't have drunk that rum," he said, closing his eyes tightly and trying to fight the dizziness.

"You had what, two sips?" asked Jack, sounding amused.

"Three," David corrected. He opened his eyes again when he felt his glass being lifted out of his hands. "Hey!" he protested.

"Well, seeing as how you don't want it," Jack smirked, drinking deeply.

"Haven't you had enough?" David asked, sounding, although he did not realize it, suspiciously like his mother.

"Nah." Jack smiled at him—not a smirk, for once, not a wild grin, just a smile. He seemed in his element here, on his ship on the sea, drink in hand. David couldn't for the life of him figure out why someone would actually _enjoy_ being disconnected to any land, in constant danger of sinking, tossed about by the whims of water and wind. He didn't say so, though, just watched as his captor polished off David's rum with a contented sigh. It surprised David when Jack spoke.

"S'been a good day," he pronounced. "Brilliant, y'know, finding the treasure. I had no idea you actually had it in you. You'll be a real pirate yet." For some reason, David noticed, Jack actually seemed to consider this a compliment. Maybe because he was drunk?

"Um," David said, feeling he ought to at least put this right. "I wasn't actually looking, you know, for a secret stash of treasure or anything."

"Then what were you doing?" Jack asked, furrowing his brow.

David blushed deep red, barely visible in the moonlight, even though he wasn't quite sure what he was embarrassed about. _Not _being a villainous thief? "Trying to get away," he admitted.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he said. He sounded almost surprised, as though he wouldn't have expected a pirates' prisoner to _want_ to escape, let alone to actually attempt it. It was like the idea had barely even occurred to him. He looked at David strangely. David, uncomfortable, looked away, out over the darkening sea.

They stood in silence for a while longer.

"Tell me about yourself, Dave," Jack finally said. "What do you do when you're not writing terrible plays?"

"Terrible?" David repeated, stung.

"Well," Jack said, as though it should have been obvious, "yeah. You didn't know?"

"Know what? That my plays are _terrible_?" David asked indignantly. He wasn't quite sure why he was taking the opinion of a pirate so personally. It wasn't like Captain Jack Kelly would know much about great literature. Still. Who was he to judge?

"Of course." Jack looked amused at the amount of offense David was taking, which really only made David _more_ offended.

David opened his mouth to defend himself, couldn't think of anything to say, closed it again, opened it to change the subject, stopped himself, and finally muttered, "It must be the rum talking."

Jack threw his head back and laughed. His laughter was so loud and infectious David almost wanted to laugh with him, but Jack was laughing at his expense, and that really wasn't okay, so David compromised by scratching the back of his head uncomfortably.

"You know, David," Jack said when he could breathe again, "you're all right. I had my doubts about you at first, but I guess you're not such a stick in the mud, after all."

"Um," David said, not quite following Jack's train of thought, but willing to go along with it regardless. At least he wasn't being insulted anymore—at least, he didn't think so. "Thanks?"

"Well, aren't ya gonna replicate?" Jack asked, leaning against the ship's railing and grinning. David took a minute to figure out what Jack was talking about.

"Reciprocate?"

"Whatever."

"Um—I used to think you were going to end up being an evil murderer, but I guess I was wrong?" David tried.

"There we are," Jack grinned, then yawned. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Dave," he said, sliding down to sit on the deck, his back slumped against the ship wall. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes

"And I think you're drunk," David said, surveying Jack as he stretched out on the wooden boards.

"Nah. Just tired."

David thought they were both sort of proved right when Jack passed out cold, still lying on the deck, about thirty seconds later. David thought about returning belowdecks, but didn't really want to go back to the party, and besides, it seemed almost irresponsible to leave Jack just lying there by himself.

That night they both slept out on open sea under open sky.

* * *

They clipped smoothly along westwards the next few days, and David slowly adjusted to this strange, unfathomable way of life. They said you could get used to anything, and he supposed that applied even to the (supposedly) relatively rare situation of getting abducted by pirates. Day by day, David became accustomed to the routine on board _The World_, to the point where he could anticipate when Dutchy would relieve Specs from lookout duty; he had come to appreciate Pie Eater's often burnt offerings in the kitchen (still an improvement on what he'd eaten on board _Greyhound_); and he was no longer surprised at the daily squabbles that would erupt between Blink and Mush's parrot, who seemed perfectly nice to David. These squabbles sometimes resulted in some short-lived bickering between Blink and Mush, which they both promptly forgot about five minutes later and were back to being a cohesive unit. By the end of his first week, David nearly felt like a member of the crew. One who hadn't volunteered and wasn't asked to do any work, but a crew member all the same.

Like he had been on his previous ship, he was free to sit at the bow and write whenever he liked. But he found that all his words had quite literally dried up in the arid desert setting of his play, and he spent a good more amount of time staring at the blank parchment in front of him than actually putting ink to paper. These writing sessions would usually end in him heaving a sigh, packing up his stuff, and going belowdecks to watch Racetrack defeat all comers at cards. Still, every day, he'd sit in his spot and try, however fruitlessly, to make ideas form into words in his mind, and put them to paper.

"Lemme see, will ya, Dave?" David looked up: Jack had come up beside him at the bow, completely unnoticed. He was grinning slightly as he held his hand out, but it wasn't really a mocking smile, and neither was his request a demand. David supposed he could easily have refused—he was pretty sure by now he wouldn't be made to walk the plank or anything—but, in all honesty, even though they had kidnapped him, he couldn't really bring himself to hate any of these pirates, or even to dislike them. Not even Jack. Especially not Jack, really.

David handed him his script wordlessly and hoped for the best.

Jack lowered his head to read, his hair falling softly across his forehead, jaw casting a partial shadow across the script, forehead constricted in concentration. David watched him reading in silence, and then:

"See, your problem is, Davey, that you're going for the sappy romance. You stink at it," Jack said frankly (apparently it hadn't been just the rum talking the other night). "That's 'cause only saps and losers are good at this stuff, and you're neither. What you really need is some good, action, adventure-y type stuff… Like, y'know, _Blood Drips in the Sahara_, or something. A real thriller."

"_Blood Drips in the Sahara_?" David repeated, not entirely sure he could have possibly heard Jack right.

"Sure! Camel chases through the desert, killer locusts, that sort of thing."

David opened his mouth to reply (although he wasn't quite sure what exactly one could say to that sort of idea) but before he could, Racetrack had come up and laid a friendly hand on Jack's shoulder. "Yeah, because wonderboy here's such an expert on Shakespearean literature." Which was really exactly what David had been thinking.

Jack just shrugged. "Tell ya what, David, when we dock on Tortuga, before we find someone to help with the map, I'll show you a real play. The best the island has to offer—it's great."

That did sound rather appealing. It was almost too bad, then, that David wasn't planning on being around for it.

He had had his escape planned almost from the moment he'd learned they were actually going ashore at some point. Provided they didn't leave him onboard—which now he was pretty sure they wouldn't, if Jack was planning on taking him to see a play—it would be all too easy to slip away in the throngs of people crowding Tortuga's streets. The best disguise, after all, was no disguise at all, just the cover of a few thousand unsuspecting people. Once he was sure that he was safe and the pirates had stopped looking for him, David would be able to send a letter ahead to his family, reassuring them of his safety, and finally begin looking for passage home.

Of course, being on board the ship wasn't such a terrible time, as he'd discovered not long after this whole mess had started. From time to time he even found himself enjoying the company of these pirates, so different from anyone David had ever interacted with before. He was fairly lucky, he supposed, to be treated so well, and the whole thing could one day be written off as a very interesting, if short, adventure in his lifetime. On the whole, it could almost be considered a positive experience, as it was rather like being on his father's ship, except that here, they actually seemed to like him more. On _Greyhound_, he had been simply the boss's son, a gentleman, there to supervise the sailors and the goods. So although he was paid respect to and treated politely enough, he knew there was a boiling resentment towards him just under the surface, coupled with disdain over his inability to tell bow from stern, or port from mizzen. Here, though, there was none of that. The pirates, odd as it may have seemed, were genuinely friendly people.

However, as interesting of a time as he might have been having, it wasn't enough that he wouldn't prefer to be in the safety and comfort of his own home on land, going back to the daily routine of England, safe and free. So even though he felt almost guilty for planning on giving the pirates the slip—some were practically his friends now, strangely enough, so familiar with him he occasionally forgot he'd been kidnapped—he figured it would at least make him even with them for actually having been kidnapped.

David was startled out of his somewhat guilty reverie by a cry from Dutchy in the crow's nest.

"Cutter off port bow!"

David groaned. Not again. Did they have to rob _every_ ship they came into contact with?

Jack and Race turned to look at once, as did David, and sure enough, he saw the telltale speck he had come to associate with an approaching ship. Jack fumbled in his pockets and took out his small spyglass, raising it to his eye. He squinted for a moment, then, sounding surprised, said, "Black sails." He lowered the telescope. "You know what that means." He looked at Race when he said this, which was good, because David had absolutely no clue what "that" meant.

Race whistled. "Guess Spotty's coming for his semi-annual visit," he said, leaning against the railing.

"About damn time?"

Racetrack laughed. David didn't understand any of it. _"Spotty"? Black sails? Semi-annual visit?_

Jack grinned and patted Race on the shoulder.

"What are you _talking_ about?" David finally tried. Jack turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows.

"Captain Spot Conlon. _Brooklyn_? C'mon, with your pop in the shipping trade, you must'a heard of him. Most famous pirate around these days."

Well, David _had_ actually heard of him. As recently as last month, as he now recalled, when the captain of _Greyhound _had instructed the lookout to always ascertain as soon as possible what color the sails of any approaching ships were. So they would be warned if _Captain Spot Conlon_ was on his way. So they could run.

"Semi-annual visit?" he choked out. "You're _friends_ with him?" After spending an entire week with them, David had been pretty certain that _The World_'s pirates were different: mavericks, so to speak, what with their never-fire-a-shot policy and clean murder records, and he wasn't quite sure at all why they would be friends with a pirate with a reputation like _Spot Conlon_'s.

Jack grinned. "You could say that."

David swallowed. "Doesn't Spot Conlon, um, kill?" he asked, feeling stupid for even asking.

"Nah, that's all talk," Jack said. Race nodded.

"Spot's got a bad reputation, but he's not a killer. I mean, maybe once or twice, but only the worst of the worst—y'know, people who really deserved it. Or in self-defense, I guess, if someone was about to kill him. But he's not the slaughter-everybody-on-board kind of pirate. Like most of 'em."

"He's actually one a' the few—very few—pirates I actually like," Jack said, "outside this crew. Spot's a good sort. He'll make you think he's not, but that's really only 'cause he's more successful that way—if everyone's scared of him. It's worked, too."

"Don't worry, Dave," Racetrack said, seeing the look on David's face and correctly interpreting it as fear. "He's really no worse than any of us. Well—close enough, anyway. Unless you're a Spanish king or anything, I wouldn't worry too much."

"Yeah," Jack smirked. "He definitely killed _him_. Heard the king's wife was so grateful she gave him half the crown jewels. And a nice bed for the night. _Hers_."

"It's Spot!" Dutchy yelled at that moment from the crow's nest.

"I know!" Jack yelled back, striding back to the main deck, where the rest of the pirates, obviously aided by Dutchy's cry, were also beginning to become aware of this fact. Their reactions varied somewhat—some looked excited, some rather scared, and a few began to swab the decks with what seemed like nervous energy. David wouldn't have guessed pirates _did_ get nervous, and really, the thought that they were made _him_ very nervous. Jack, at least, didn't seem to even notice the air of apprehension.

"So, uh, how often do you actually see him?" David asked, hurrying along after Jack, somehow feeling safer the nearer he stayed.

Jack shrugged, stopping about midship on portside. "Once, sometimes twice a year. More'n that, probably. Usually we end up running into each other on Tortuga, or else out at sea, and he stays and plays poker for a day or two."

"Poker?" David repeated, tearing his eyes away from the billowing black sails that were now clearly visible in the distance to look at Jack. "He comes to play poker?"

"Aye, with Racetrack," Jack said, jerking his head in Race's direction behind him. "It's a…tradition of sorts, you could say."

"Great tradition," Racetrack himself sighed, rolling his eyes and coming up from behind to stand at Jack's other side, all three of them watching the approaching ship. Jack smirked.

"He's just bitter," he told David. David shook his head in bewilderment.

"A tradition? To play poker? You guys play poker all the time." If there was one thing he'd learned in the past week, it was that pirates loved to play poker. And also how to do so (he stunk at it. If the pirates hadn't already stolen his money, he would have lost it all playing poker anyway, particularly to Racetrack.).

Jack's smirk grew wider as he leaned back, away from the edge, gripping the railing to hold himself in place. "Yeah. See," he began, and David could tell that Jack loved this story, whatever it was. Or at least found it endlessly amusing. "The first time they played poker, Racetrack lost."

David waited for him to continue. "So?" he said when Jack didn't, not understanding what he was getting at.

"So," Jack said, "As long as you've been on this ship, have you ever known Racetrack to lose? At poker? Even once?" David thought about it a moment.

"No," he realized. He knew Race was _good_,but he had supposed the pirate had to at least lose _sometimes_, as even the most skilled poker player occasionally drew a bad hand. But then, Race did seem exceptionally lucky, and luck, apparently, was something superstitious pirates believed in. A lot.

"Racetrack never loses," confirmed Jack. "Well, hardly ever. And definitely not when playing just one person, and for the first time, too. So it was a bit of a surprise to him when Spot won that first game."

"Dirty cheat," Race said, but it was obvious he didn't mean it.

"Race couldn't believe he'd lost," Jack explained. "And he's been making up for it ever since. He demanded a rematch, won. Demanded another, won it ditto. Every single game they've played since he's won, easy, even if he's lost to other people in the meantime. But he won't let it _go_. He won't forgive himself for losing that one time." Jack glanced fondly over at Racetrack. He seemed dangerously close to ruffling his friend's hair. "Stubborn little proud bastard."

"I'm right here, you know," Racetrack said, punching Jack in the arm, obviously not very painfully. David was still confused.

"Why does Spot keep playing, then, if he keeps losing? Why doesn't he just admit defeat?"

Jack shrugged.

"Same reasons, I'd guess. Stubbornness. Pride. Figures maybe if he could beat him once, he can do it again. Anyway, Spot's hardly the type to admit defeat at _anything_. Ever. So they're in constant rematch. I don't think Race'll be satisfied that he's come out ahead even if he takes every damn penny Spot's got."

"Not likely to happen," Racetrack said. "He's got heaps."

"That is stubborn," David agreed. Racetrack shrugged.

"Keeps things interesting," he said, sounding a bit more cheerful now that story time was over. David looked back towards the ship with the black sails, which was getting closer, ever closer. Suddenly, he noticed something else.

"What are those other ships?" he asked, looking at the extra little black dots that had appeared on the horizon behind Spot's ship. Jack had just stuck his hand in his pocket, apparently felt something, and pulled it out; he was now busy counting the coins in his palm and it took him a moment to answer.

"Oh, those're his fleet," Jack said, not looking up to see what David was talking about.

"His _fleet_?"

"Yeah." Jack pocketed the money again, seeming pleased, and looked at the growing ship-shaped-specks on the sea. "A bevy of pirate ships that all sail under his command. Useful for sea battles and all that. Mostly they're ships that he captures and doesn't want to give up. He puts men from his own crew to captain 'em, and for the crew—well, there's no shortage of men wanting to sail with _Spot Conlon_. He keeps his best men on his own ship, 'course. And I think a few of the ships weren't originally his men, but pirates who made alliances with him—former enemies wanting protection, weak pirates who made more of a living under him than they do on their own, that sorta thing. _Brooklyn_'s the flagship, of course, the one Spot's on."

"How many total?" David asked, shocked at the multitude of specks that were becoming visible in the distance.

"'Round about a dozen, maybe a few more. But he doesn't keep 'em with him all the time. Don't ask me what they do when he decides they're not wanted, though." Jack shaded his eyes against the bright sun. "He's nearly here. Think we should go over there or wait for him to come to us?"

Racetrack gave him a sardonic look. Jack nodded his head, conceding.

"Fine, you're right; we'll go over there. Look, there he is up in his perch—" Jack pointed; David looked—by now, you could see him, famous Spot Conlon, or what David supposed was him: a small figure up in the approaching ship's crow's nest, far above the ocean surface, still a little bit aways. "Think he can hear us from there?"

"Dunno," Racetrack said, and was it just David, or was _Brooklyn_ getting closer with increasing speed? He could see faces of men on the other ship, now. Dammit, now the whites of their eyes! David tried to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible, drawing back a little bit from the edge of the ship. Of course it was at that moment Race decided to draw attention to them.

"Hey there, Spot!" Racetrack yelled genially across the water, waving his arm. Spot, Captain Spot Conlon, high up above, looked—and stuck his tongue out. Possibly the least threatening and most immature thing David could have imagined a pirate to do, of all things the first thing he ever saw Captain Spot do. But he had an uneasy feeling that most people didn't come out of interactions with Spot Conlon so blessed.

Racetrack, his greeting complete, contentedly lit up a cigar and leaned back against the main mast.

Jack, meanwhile, had also given a quick wave, and was now trying to assemble a small group to swing over to Spot's ship.

"So me and you Boots, we'll go to _Brooklyn_," he was saying. David edged further away towards the other side of the ship.

"And Davey will keep us company!"

Goddammit.


End file.
